Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  mind went to black. Apparently our conversation was over.

  I opened my eyes, no longer able to sleep. As I did, I became simultaneously aware of several things:

  I wasn’t in a sleeping bag on the floor of the study of Reverend Al’s church; my head was pounding;

  and I had a terrible, metal ic taste in my mouth. I was in a straitjacket, on the floor of a padded room,

  and Dr. Greene was watching me from behind the safety window.

  26

  You are a damned nuisance.” Greene’s voice was only slightly distorted coming through the speakers

  into the room. “The drugs in the pizza were supposed to keep you out for twenty-four hours.”

  I’d been drugged. That explained the taste and the bindings. I’d never have let myself get in this

  situation otherwise. The pizza was delayed, cold, and tasted like crap. You’d think I would have been

  suspicious. Sheesh. And while I was stil a little thickheaded, I was starting to be able to think through

  the sedative-induced fog. Let’s hear it for the vampire metabolism. Or maybe siren. Or both. Whatever,

  I was awake. But I couldn’t do anything. Yet.

  “They haven’t even had time to get to the church yet, let alone link it to you and declare you a danger.

  I haven’t had time to meet with Dr. Scott.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. She stood behind the window

  in her sensible gray suit, arms crossed over her chest, fingers drumming absently against her arm.

  “Personal y, I’d rather just kil you outright. But that would bring your werewolf into things and my

  employer has been very clear about not wanting him involved until after sunrise tomorrow.” My

  werewolf? Kevin wasn’t anywhere close to mine. Her fingers drummed faster. “We’l try another shot.

  Perhaps a higher dose—” She turned and walked from the observation room.

  I didn’t have long, perhaps only a minute or two. “Ivy, Vicki, are you here?” I tried to keep my voice a

  bare whisper so that it wouldn’t get picked up by the room’s monitoring equipment. Of course Greene

  had talked freely, so she had probably turned it off. But I decided to be quiet, just in case.

  The temperature of the room dropped until I could see my breath fogging in the air. I wasn’t surprised.

  Ghosts are more likely to manifest when the person they’re attached to is in a strong emotional state.

  Can’t get much stronger than life-threatening terror. I could almost feel the adrenaline bubbling through

  my veins. “Find Dr. Scott. Tel him what’s happening. Then warn Reverend Al. Get Gran and Mom out of

  there.”

  I rol ed onto my back and began pul ing against the confining straitjacket with al of my might. I’d had

  enough strength to strain the metal of the table back in the lab. It should be easy to Hulk my way out of

  a contraption of mere canvas and leather. Assuming, of course, it wasn’t bespel ed. Which it probably

  was. But it wasn’t like I had a glut of options. So I struggled, and I pul ed, and succeeded in just about

  pul ing my own arms from their sockets. But spel ed or not, the fabric was starting to give. I strained

  harder. To hel with it. My shoulders would heal. I wanted, needed, this damned thing off.

  As if from a distance I heard the crash of waves, the cal of gul s. And suddenly I knew. I had cal ed

  power when I fel asleep at the office, had influenced Dr. Scott. And I could do it again. I concentrated

  as I pul ed, thinking of Dr. Scott, of Gerry and every other male I knew who worked at Birchwoods. I

  didn’t know what time it was, didn’t real y know what I was doing, but I had to try. Because here came

  Dr. Greene, carrying a needle, her sensible heels clicking briskly against the linoleum.

  I pul ed harder against the bindings, adrenaline roaring through my system, giving my senses the

  hyperfocus they’d had the other morning. Her breathing, harsh and loud. And, fainter, in the distance,

  but closing fast, running footsteps.

  She lunged at me, syringe at the ready, but I was too quick for her. Moving with unnatural speed, I

  rol ed, kicking at her knee with both feet. The blow connected hard, and with the extra strength behind it

  her knee didn’t just give, it tore, the bone breaking through the skin with a spray of blood.

  Screaming, she fel to the floor, her lower leg nearly severed. Blood was everywhere, the scent nearly

  overpowering. She grabbed her leg, trying to apply pressure, but it wasn’t working.

  My stomach growled, my eyes started to bleed red. I could see the needle, far from her reach. Hear

  the sound of her racing pulse as she stared at me in horror and growing fear. My arms were free, the

  straitjacket torn apart, but I couldn’t remember doing it. Couldn’t think past the roaring in my ears and

  the hunger that had drool running from the corner of my mouth.

  She tried to back away, shoving herself with her good leg, a trail of smudged blood shocking red

  against the stark white linoleum.

  I fought not to fol ow, fought every instinct with the one remaining shred of humanity left to me.

  The door to the observation room slammed open. Gerry and Dr. Scott burst into the room, both

  panting hard from exertion. They took in the scene on the other side of the window with a single

  horrified glance.

  “Thank God!” Greene shouted. “Save me. She’s gone feral!”

  “Liar.” My voice sounded not the least bit human.

  “Dr. Greene, please. Don’t antagonize her.” Dr. Scott’s voice was stil a little breathy, but calm, and I

  could feel him using his talent to try to reach the part of me that was stil human, to soothe and calm

  me. “Celia, you must stay calm. Vicki told me everything. The police are on the way here and to the

  church. You’ve done nothing wrong, and we’l find proof of that. But you must hold on.”

  I turned to look at him, the movement difficult and disjointed, as if my body were unwil ing to fol ow the

  orders my brain was giving it. My skin was glowing.

  “I’m going to send Gerry to get you some food, and then I’m coming in to treat Dr. Greene’s injury. I

  can’t let her die. Can you let me do that?”

  “Yes.” I forced the word through clenched jaws.

  “Good. Now if you’l back up to the far corner, please.” He moved past Gerry, who was standing, pale

  and shaking, in front of the door. He’d switched off the intercom before turning to leave, but with my

  heightened senses I could stil hear them as clearly as if we were in the same room.

  “Are you insane? You can’t mean to go in there with that … thing.”

  “I would remind you that Ms. Graves could easily have kil ed and eaten the doctor. She hasn’t. In fact,

  she’s shown admirable self-control. But it would be foolish to push the issue by leaving her in there with

  a bleeding woman. So go to the kitchen and get her some food. Now.”

  Gerry left. I heard his footfal s going down the hal at a jog that was not quite a run. And I heard Dr.

  Scott’s gentle knock on the door.

  I managed to make it through the next few minutes without kil ing anyone, but I don’t know how. It was

  one of the hardest things I’d done in my life. I wanted to kil Greene. Not just the beast in me, but the

  human part as wel . Because a part of me felt she’d deserved it. Reverend Al was dead—the cops

  arrived in time to protect the people in the church from the bad guys, but the drugs in the pizza had

  reacted with the pain meds he was on for an old footbal injury. I knew al this because Vicki had Alex

  mak
e some cal s.

  I’d been kidnapped and set up for a perfect frame. Even if I was proven not guilty in a court of law, I

  was a monster. I’d be locked up in one of the state institutions, probably never to see the light of day

  again.

  But it didn’t happen.

  Everything worked out exactly the way I needed it to. To the sound of ocean waves and the cal of

  gul s. It wasn’t subtle, and there’d be a price to pay. But I did what I had to do.

  Was it wrong to manipulate everyone I dealt with? Hell, yeah. Did I care? No. Because I was running

  out of time. Everything, from start to finish, was tied to the plots against King Dahlmar. Good people

  were dead, I’d been turned into a monster, and demons were loose in the city. While it seemed to me to

  be a lot of trouble just for a pool of natural gas under Rusland, there could wel be things I wasn’t aware

  of yet.

  Tonight the king would go to the World Series game. Tomorrow, first thing, he was scheduled to fly

  back home with his sons and entourage. Security before and after would be incredibly tight, but there’s

  only so much you can do in a crowded public venue. It was al going down at the game. I’d have bet my

  life on it. Greene’s comment about Kevin had just confirmed what I already suspected.

  Gibson pul ed up to the door of Birchwoods administration building in the same midsized Buick sedan

  I’d ridden with him in earlier. I was climbing into the front seat almost before the vehicle had come to a

  complete stop. I didn’t dare dawdle in case the mojo wore off. That was entirely possible, since I didn’t

  real y know what in the hel I was doing.

  I pul ed the seat belt tight over my oh-so-chic gray Birchwoods sweats. At least they were clean, and

  better than the stuff I’d borrowed from Bruno, even if I was liable to die from heat prostration. “Did you

  get everything?” I reached into the bag on the seat next to me and began rifling through its contents.

  “Yeah.” Gibson pul ed the car around the circle drive, heading toward the gate. Gerry was there, but

  he didn’t smile or wave. No surprise.

  “I’ve got to tel you, that little toy of yours is worth damned near as much as this car.” He didn’t bother

  to keep the disgust from his voice.

  “Yeah, wel , I’m the one paying for it. And if we need it, it wil be worth twice the price.” I pul ed out an

  assortment of gaudy holy items and a pair of mirrored sunglasses that I slipped on. Next were an

  Angels cap and a new denim jacket. I pul ed the former onto my head and yanked the price tags off the

  latter, unbuttoning it to reveal the lining. Sure enough, tacked pockets. Perfect.

  I slid a pair of single-shot squirt guns into the slots made by the stitching and began unwrapping the

  replacement sensor car. This time I’d splurged on the deluxe model. It looked exactly like the one Matty

  used. Taking it from the hinged jewel case it came in, I tucked it into my pocket and began skimming the

  directions. It worked basical y the same way as my previous one, but with a few added features. Good

  to know.

  Last, but not least, I grabbed the smal blue water bottle with a sponge on the end that you can buy at

  any office supply store to seal envelopes. Twisting off the cap, I fil ed the bottle with holy water. Sealing

  it closed, I tucked it into the right side pocket of my jacket, the opposite side from where I’d put the

  gizmo. Taking a deep breath, I told myself I was ready.

  I lied.

  Gibson had slowed the car nearly to a stop. Not that he had much choice. It was already 4:15 and

  traffic to the bal park had things jammed up back onto the highway. “The king’s driver, Ivan, wil meet us

  at the giant cap on the right with the replacement tickets.”

  “Good.” I didn’t look up, I was too busy checking the water pistols one last time, making sure that

  they’d function if I had to fire them. I’ve always had better luck with the actual One Shot brand than with

  the imitations, but Gibson had been doing the buying.

  “I wish he’d have cal ed it off,” Gibson said. “It’s stupid to deliberately walk into a trap.”

  “No chance. He wants to find the traitor and to know whether or not his sons are involved. He figures

  his people can handle whatever comes up. They’ve had plenty of warning.” I grinned. “Of course, he

  may decide to hire a double. If a spawn does a shapechange, it actual y becomes a double of the

  target’s body. Fools fingerprints, voice analysis, lab work. Everything down to DNA.”

  “I know,” Gibson said bitterly. “Makes life hard for us cops. Fortunately, there aren’t too many spawn

  out there.”

  “Yeah, but what do you wager the king’s got at least one on the payrol ? We know the bad guys do.”

  Gibson grunted and turned the car onto Gene Autry Parkway. We were nearly there. From where we

  sat I could see fans in Angels red and Cubs blue hiking toward the stadium across the packed parking

  lot as outdoor vendors hawked their wares. Four fifteen in the afternoon and already there were plenty

  of people who acted as if they were trashed. I shook my head. Cal me a prude, but I can’t imagine

  paying a smal fortune for a ticket to a game like this and then getting so wasted I wouldn’t remember

  the game.

  Traffic was moving at a crawl. Just ahead, a man in a neon orange vest signaled with a flashlight that

  there were openings in that row. Gibson fol owed the line leading toward him.

  “Did you get hold of your boyfriend and the werewolf?”

  “I tried. Neither one of them answered his phone. I think Bruno’s pissed at me for standing him up. Of

  course he may have just not recognized the number. But I doubt it. He knows I had to get a new phone

  the other day and I imagine he got the number from Dawna.”

  Gibson had to stop to let the driver ahead of us pul into a parking space, so he had the chance to

  give me a shocked look. “You stood him up?”

  “It’s not like I had a choice. As you’l recal , I was unconscious at the time. But he doesn’t know that,

  and he’s pissed and won’t answer his phone because I was supposed to return his Mets cap and I

  didn’t.”

  “He should know you better than that.”

  “Yeah, he should. And he’l realize that about the fifth or sixth inning and start worrying. He’l cal me

  back during the seventh-inning stretch.”

  Gibson laughed as he pul ed the car into one of the last few vacant spots. “You know him pretty wel .”

  “We were together through most of col ege.” I didn’t quite manage to keep the wistfulness from my

  voice.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s things like today that made me so crazy. If he’d just pick up the damned phone. But

  nope. He’s too hardheaded.”

  “And I bet it’s things like today that made him crazy, too. Knowing that you’re going off into danger and

  there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  I managed not to flinch, but ouch. That was a little too close to the mark. I climbed out of the car so

  that I wouldn’t have to answer. Not that Gibson didn’t notice. Stil , he didn’t press. I was glad. I didn’t

  want to think about Bruno. I didn’t need the distraction.

  We moved across the parking lot with the rest of the herd, making our way past the huge “A” with its

  lit display. Peppered throughout the crowd were plenty of uniformed security and warrior priests of the

  various
militant religious orders in ful regalia and armament. Even from this distance the noise of the

  crowd beat against my sensitive hearing. Competing scents vied for my attention. Unwashed bodies,

  cologne, buttered popcorn, hot dogs, and beer were the most prevalent, but by no means the only,

  smel s floating in the air.

  The announcer was doing the usual pregame nonsense that most of the spectators were happy to

  ignore. The first pitch was set for 8:00 EDT. It wouldn’t be too much longer before they announced the

  starting lineups and played the national anthem.

  Ivan was waiting right where he was supposed to be. He stood there, unmovable as a mountain,

  dressed in jeans and a polo shirt under a Cubs jacket. The clothes were supposed to help him blend in

  with the crowd but didn’t. For one thing, they were pressed. His jeans had a crease. And then there

  was his posture. The regular fans were excited but relaxed. He wasn’t. He held himself in absolute

  readiness, his eyes constantly moving, taking in everything. I wondered if I looked like that when I was

  on duty, and figured yeah, I probably did.

  I paused, letting Gibson take the lead. I took off my sunglasses, turned slightly, and, pretending to

  clean them, took a good look at old Ivan in the mirrored surface. He passed test one. He wasn’t an

  il usion.

  Sliding the glasses back on, I reached my right hand into my pocket, pressing it against the little

  sponge until I felt wetness on my palm. Test two was something Matty had suggested when I cal ed the

  hospital. Spawn and demons can change form until they look just like the real thing. But that uses

  demonic magic—which can be shorted out by the judicious use of holy items. If Ivan was a spawn this

  little dab of water wouldn’t make him change back, but it would sting like hel (literal y) and give me a

  glimpse of his true form.

  I walked up to Ivan, my arm extended in the classic “shake hands” gesture. I could tel he hated it. But

  there were witnesses, and refusing would be obvious. So he grimly shook my extended hand as quickly

  as he could manage, discreetly drying his damp palm on the leg of his jeans when he thought I wasn’t

  looking. “Fol ow me.”

  He led us to the gates and into a line that was rapidly thinning as game time approached. One at a